Somewhere Out There
by matchstix5
Summary: She's dreaming of her... and she's dreaming right back. Quinntana, possibly multi-chapter? rated T for now.


**Somewhere out there**

Quinn lightly stepped up onto the raised stage, the lingering smoke and smell of vintage wine swirling around her head. She looked out over the sparse, lethargic crowd. New Haven wasn't exactly a party city, she had come to find, and that suited her perfectly. Now, in Grapevine- the dirty dive bar with a subtle class- she was right at home. It was warmly lit with a fireplace and candles, the heat bouncing off the grapevine-painted stone walls to keep the room pretty toasty, even warmer on stage due to the heat of strangers' stares. Her eyes locked with her psych professor in the back corner, still pining over her. He came to every open mic night she did, just to sit there like a kicked puppy. She held his gaze for as long as she could, and then refocused on the lonely mic stand in front of her. She readjusted the front of her vintage floral dress and tugged on the sleeves of her tan cardigan. She saw her group of friends off to the side in a booth. Coming to Yale had proven a sort of salve to Quinn's prickliness. She was warmer now, quieter. She was no longer at the top, and she didn't feel any pressure to be. She could be Quinn now.

Tina, who had come the semester after she graduated on a full-ride academic scholarship, waved timidly and smiled. Quinn waved back. She stepped up and lightly grasped the microphone, waiting for the music to start. Tina had been a pleasant surprise for Quinn, who had made friends in New Haven, but not friends like glee friends. She had been elated to see her, and astonished at the woman she had blossomed into. She no longer wore heavy make-up, the blue in her hair was vanished entirely, and she wore a perfectly matching, pale pastel outfit. She was as changed as Quinn was. Earlier in the week, Quinn had let it slip that there was a bar that had open mic nights and Tina had insisted that they go, to keep the spirit of their glee past alive. Soon, it had turned into a group outing, Tina's friends, fellow architecture majors, and Quinn's friends that studied law with her, had made a cute little group.

Less than half of the people they had brought had heard of Grapevine, and even fewer had visited the place. It was a small building wedged between an Italian deli and a pawn shop. Outside, it's dirty and unappealing, but inside it's warm and inviting. There's a cluster of tables and chairs in the center that people move at will to suit their immediate needs, and booths ring the whole place. Though technically people aren't supposed to smoke inside, no one really cares if you do. Or what you smoke, either. The stage is at the deep end of the bar, far away from the door. The bar is off to the side, and serves primarily wine, from Franzia to vintage Bordeaux. Open mic nights are Thursdays and Fridays, and usually draw a pretty good crowd. Quinn had sung here a few times before and slowly fell in love with the people, the atmosphere, and the wine. Tonight, though, was slightly different.

Quinn had picked a special song, for someone special. Someone she didn't know where they were, what they were doing. Someone she hoped hadn't forgotten her. Someone she let slide right through her fingers.

The soft, tinkling melody began, and she took a deep breath.

Santana rushed backstage, shaking off the rain and hurrying to change into her next outfit. The bass of house music pulsed behind her, cheers and screams of people outside jumping and dancing crazily. She starts speaking in rapid Spanish to her assistants, exchanging the fierce red electric guitar for the matte black acoustic, and the flashy Alberto Makali white and blue sequined dress for ripped loose jeans and a snug black tank.

Being quasi-famous has been good to Santana. She started in a greasy bar in New York, and was pushed through the door into 'rising star' status by a music producer with a slight drinking problem. He stumbled across her a late Tuesday morning, crooning into the microphone for a sparse crowd of alcoholics. She was thrust onto the stage within months, and had her debut album out in a year. She had a fiery, Latin-Pop-Rock style that was quintessentially Santana. She could hum a ballad lowly and then turn around and spit a fast-paced rollicking song in Spanglish. Now she had quite a large fan base, growing every day. She was able to buy a house for her parents, start her little brother's college fund, and rent an apartment for herself with a great view of her city.

This concert was nearly packed, a little over 5,000 people screaming her name, despite it being an open-air venue and it was raining lightly. After retouching her make-up and fluffing her hair, Maritza, Santana's personal assistant, pushed her back on stage. The crowd erupted anew, welcoming their diva back. She strode across the stage, to perch on a lone stool in the middle. The pounding techno music faded, and the crowd instinctively quieted.

"This one is for anyone with 'What If' tattooed on their heart."

She said nothing more, just looked over the crowd and waited for the music to start.

The soft chiming melody began, she started strumming the correct chords, and she purred out the first line.

The bar instantly quieted with the first note to hum from Quinn's mouth. Her eyes closed and she swayed lightly, her dress swishing around her knees.

"_Late at night when all the world_

_Is sleeping_

_I stay up and think of you._

_And I wish on a star, that somewhere you are,_

_Thinking of me too."_

2500 miles away, in Los Angeles, Santana glided into the chorus with her.

"_Cause I'm dreamin' of you tonight_

_Till tomorrow _

_I'll be holding you tight._

_And there's nowhere in the world I'd rather be,_

_Than here in my room, dreamin' about_

_You and me…"_

Santana's eyes drifted closed, remembering the feel of pale skin under her hands, soft lips on her neck. She hoped that wherever she was, Quinn could hear her.

"_Wonder if you ever see me_

_And I _

_Wonder if you know I'm there._

_If you looked in my eyes_

_Would you see what's inside?_

_Would you even care?"_

Santana's voice dipped low, dripping with longing, regret, and remembered bliss. Her fingers danced over the guitar strings in a sad little lick, pulling her back.

The whole bar watched and listened in rapture as Quinn sang, each note alive with emotion. She had receded, and was barely aware of the crowd sitting in rapture, the ever-present cloud of smoke from clove cigarettes, and Tina in the back, seeing for the first time since high school the raw, exposed Quinn that only came out through art. She poured her feelings into it, letting each note get twisted in remembered black hair, lust-red fingernails scratching over her back, and with every measure she was pulled further into her memory.

"_I just want to hold you close,_

_But so far_

_All I have are dreams of you._

_So I wait for the day, and the courage to say_

_How much I love you._

_Yes I do."_

Unknowingly, the two launched into the chorus together again.

"_I'll be dreaming of you tonight_

_Till tomorrow I'll be holding you tight_

_And there's nowhere in the world I'd rather be_

_Than here in my room dreaming about you and me"_

Santana played the bridge, adding a little more flair with each strum.

"_Corazon" _she whispered.

"_I can't stop dreamin' of you" _Quinn answered.

"_No puedo dejar de pensar en ti_

_I can't stop dreaming_

_Cómo te necesito_

_I can't stop dreaming of you_

_Mi amor, cómo te extraño"_

Even from miles apart, they worked together perfectly.

"_Late at night when all the world is sleeping_

_I stay up and think of you_

_And I still can't believe_

_That you came up to me and said I love you_

_I love you too!_

They both sang this line forcefully, passionately.

"_Now I'm dreaming with you tonight_

_Till tomorrow and for all of my life_

_And there's nowhere in the world I'd rather be_

_Than here in my room dreaming with you endlessly"_

Santana belted out her line, and the crowd ate it up.

_With you tonight_

_And there's nowhere in the world where I'd rather be_

_Than here in my room I'll be dreaming_

_With you endlessly"_

Both crowds sat shocked, still swimming in the emotions both women had expelled throughout the song. Slowly, they came to, and started clapping, building in a crescendo until it was almost deafening. They bowed in unison, and exited their respective stages. Quinn returned to sit with Tina and their friends. Santana headed back to her dressing room to gather her things so she could go home.

"Quinn, that was amazing! Where was that back in glee? You would have gotten way more solos than Rachel." Tina gushed.

Quinn blushed. I doubt that. And… I guess before I never had anywhere to sing from." She drifted off again, into her own world.

_I need to call her. It's been ten months. I need to see her. I could just… call Rachel. Say I'll go to visit her, I'm sure they still live together. Christmas is coming up soon. That's a good reason to go see your friends, right? …what if she doesn't WANT to see me? What if it really was just a 'two-time thing' for her? Ugh, I can't. I don't know what I'd do if she rejected me. Laughed at me. I need to call her._

"Quinn. Come on, let's go. It's getting late." Tina grabs her hand and leads her out of the bar and back towards campus. They get to the front of the dormitory buildings, and bid each other goodnight. She drags her feet up the stairs, down the hall, and into her room. She dresses quickly, brushes her teeth to rid the old grape taste, and crawls into bed. She snakes her arms around the pillow traditionally used for a head, but she never utilized, and hugs it tightly. She inhales deeply and can almost smell Santana's watermelon shampoo.

Santana kicks the door open, stepping in bogged down with her guitar, her other guitar, a jacket, and a bag of Chinese take-out. She tosses everything down on the couch, and sits down heavily. She kicks her feet up and turns on the flat-screen. She eats quickly, trying not to fall asleep, and drags her feet upstairs, down the hall and into the bathroom. She strips and steps into the shower, hot water blasting. She leans her head against the wall, letting the water run down her back and untie the knots in her back. She scrubs off the dirt kicked up by her fans, the heavy stage make-up, sweat, and stress. She steps out, wraps up in a huge towel, and brushes her teeth- still fighting sleep. At long last, she falls into bed.

As her eyes drift closed, she imagines she can almost see a pair of striking hazel eyes blinking sleepily in front of her.


End file.
